“We’ve seen the ads,” Todd said.
“Good. Well, Gordy thinks, or was thinking, that Rackley owns a chunk of Swift. How much he wasn’t sure, because, as usual, Rackley operates behind a wall of shell companies, most of them domiciled offshore. These fronts have slowly and quietly purchased the stock of Swift, always keeping their acquisitions under 5 percent. More than that, as we know, and they have to register with the SEC. Gordy was on the trail of three separate and apparently unrelated shell companies that owned a total of 12 percent of Swift. Current value of about four billion, and making Rackley by far the largest shareholder, something he would like to keep quiet.”
Todd said, “Ho hum. Where do we fit in?”
“Not sure we do, but it makes for fun reading, and since we can’t agree on anything else to talk about, I’ll just keep prattling on about Swift Bank and Hinds Rackley. Any objections? Good, now, about a month ago Swift landed on the front page with another scandal, nothing new for these crooks, but now they might have outdone themselves. So let’s say you, Todd, walk into your local Swift branch and open a routine checking account. You deposit a thousand dollars, get some cute little temporary checks, all is swell and you really liked the pretty account manager, who was super friendly. Well, once you leave, she turns into a crooked little bitch and opens some more accounts for you. A savings account, or two, a money-market account, a credit card, a debit card, maybe even a brokerage account. Instead of just one Swift account, you actually have seven. She gets a bonus, a pat on the back, good girl. You know nothing about the other six accounts, but good ole Swift sticks you for a few extra bucks each month in mysterious fees to cover the accounts.”
“Who squealed?” asked Zola.
“She did. Turns out that Swift account managers from coast to coast were trained in nefarious ways to push accounts on folks who didn’t want them, or, if they declined, simply create the extra accounts anyway. Millions of accounts. Your girl and a few others have come forward and blown the whistle. They claim they were under enormous pressure from the top down to create the accounts. The entire bank is upside down and Congress starts hearings next week.”
“I hope it’s all true, for Rackley’s sake anyway,” Todd said.
“And litigation?” Zola asked.
“Of course. The plaintiffs’ bar is in a feeding frenzy. Two class actions already, more to come. There could be a million customers affected.”
“Wish I banked at Swift,” Todd said. “Then I could take a shot at that asshole.”
“He’s got his claws into our skin deep enough.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Zola said.
10
The Bardtown Federal Detention Facility was in a secluded valley three miles off Interstate 99 and twenty miles south of Altoona. If there was a town nearby, it wasn’t visible. The entrance was a wide asphalt drive that appeared new and ran downhill, giving them a panoramic view of the place as they arrived. Spread before them was a complex of flat-roofed, boxlike buildings, very similar to classroom trailers used at overcrowded schools. A double line of tall chain-link fencing surrounded the rows of buildings in a neat square. Thick rolls of razor wire glistened from atop the fencing and gave the entire facility a foreboding sense of being nothing more than a prison.
As Todd slowed the car, he said, “It looks like one of those old black-and-whites of Auschwitz.”
“Thanks, Todd,” Zola said.
It was a demoralizing sight, and Zola could not control her emotions. She was crying when Todd pulled in to the gravel lot. They sat for a few moments and stared at a two-story building at the front, obviously the place where they would check in. It, too, was flat-roofed and appeared to be made of wallboard. So far, the entire facility gave the impression of having been constructed overnight.
Zola finally said, “Let’s go,” and they walked to the front door. A temporary sign beside it read, “Bardtown Federal Detention Facility. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Office of Detention and Removal Operations. Department of Homeland Security. DHS, DRO, ICE. Administration Building.”
They stared at the sign and Todd mumbled, “Alphabet soup.”
To which Mark replied, “Let’s hope they’ve met the ACLU.”
They walked through the doors and entered a reception area. There were no signs to guide them, so Mark stopped a thick young man in a uniform. “Excuse me, sir, but where is the visiting area?”
“What kind of visitors?”
“Well, we would like to see one of your inmates.”
“They’re called detainees.”
“Okay, we would like to see one of your detainees.”
Reluctantly, he pointed down the hall and said, “Try down there.”
“Thank you so much.” They drifted down the wide hallway, looking for a sign that would indicate anything to do with visitation. Because it was a federal facility, there were employees everywhere, all in uniforms that varied. Beefy young men swaggering around with guns on their belts and “ICE” in bold letters on the backs of their parkas. Clerks with white shirts and ties and gold badges over their pockets. Cops who appeared to be nothing more than county deputies.
They walked to a counter where three young ladies were camped out. One was shuffling papers while the other two were enjoying their afternoon snacks. Zola said, “Excuse me, but I’m here to see my parents.”
“And who are your parents?” asked the gal with the paperwork.
“Maal. My father is Abdou, my mother is Fanta. Maal. M-A-A-L.”
“Where are they from?”
“Well, they’re from New Jersey, but Senegal originally. They were picked up yesterday.”
“Oh, they’re detainees?”
Mark bit his tongue to keep from blurting, “Of course they’re detainees. Why else would we be here?” But he stared at Todd and said nothing.
“Yes, they are,” Zola said politely.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, no, but we’ve driven two hours to see them.”
The officer shook her head while another put down her brownie and pecked on a keyboard. The second one, an older white lady, said, “They have not been processed yet.” This, obviously, was a deal killer.
“Okay, well, then process them,” Zola said.
The first one said, “We’ll take care of that, okay? But I’m afraid you can’t see them until they’ve been processed.”
“You must be kidding,” Zola said.
“Sorry,” she said without the slightest trace of sympathy.
“How can you hold them if they haven’t been processed?” Zola demanded.